


The Merits of Poetic Licence

by mainecoon76



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quality of writing is disagreed upon, and Watson proves himself to be an unreliable narrator. Eventually, though, Holmes comes to realize that the liberal use of poetic licence may occasionally lead to quite favourable results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Merits of Poetic Licence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



> Betaed once again by mrs_sweetpeach. Love & hugs!

I would not go so far as to say that it was with any kind of irritation or disappointment that I perceived the stack of papers lying upon the settee when I entered the sitting room of Baker Street. I had, after all, given them to my companion with an honest inquiry for his opinion, and if the two of us happened to differ on the subject, I really should not go so far as to let it hurt my pride. Yet I do confess that I was marginally taken aback by the sheer amount of red ink that covered even the first page. The man himself was lounging comfortably in his armchair and, I could only surmise, hiding his unbecoming smirk behind the latest edition of the Evening Standard.

“Evening, Holmes,” he greeted me in a thoroughly unaffected manner while I walked over to survey the damage. I gave him a non-committing hum while flipped through the pages, only to see that the following ones very much resembled the first. Watson’s paper rustled in a treacherous manner, but I chose to ignore him as I settled back more comfortably and steeled myself for the unwarranted onslaught of literary criticism.

 

**“The Papers of the Ex-President Murillo”** was the title I had chosen for my first foray into Watson’s field of expertise, but not even that had found acceptance before the merciless writer’s eye.

_Not ideal, my dear Holmes,_ spelled the remark in Watson’s bold handwriting. _You’re giving away a central point of the mystery right at the beginning. And I really think it would be wiser to leave the papers out of this. Consult with Mycroft, perhaps?_

As if my brother had anything to say about my own literary ambitions. That is not to say they had been particularly high to begin with; I had undertaken this venture mainly because I had intended to illustrate to my friend that a report of our work should point out the merits of logic and deductive reasoning instead of wallowing in romanticism. It did not look as if I had been able to convince him.

**“One of the first cases that were brought to my attention after my three-year absence from Baker Street was the very interesting matter of the papers of the Ex-President Murillo, which proved an excellent exercise for my deductive reasoning skills. The affair was brought to my attention by a sturdy Gentleman by the name of John Scott Eccles, a middle aged bachelor of means, respectable, conservative and thoroughly unremarkable save for the obviously uncharacteristic state of disarray in which he had left his clothing and personal toilette. He reported that he had met, upon the occasion of…**

_Holmes, you’re not writing a report for Lestrade. Set the scenery, pay attention to details! The reader wants to receive a vivid picture of that Gentleman._

Now Watson, of all people, was telling _me_ to pay attention to details.

_Also, a domestic scene to serve as an introduction would not go amiss. Include a bit of idle chatter between us, possibly foreshadowing some of the later developments._

I had a fair recollection of the idle chatter that had occupied us at the time. It was in no way suitable for publication in a respectable magazine, although at the time I had despaired that even the bluntest innuendo on my part would pass the notice of my esteemed friend and newly re-established fellow lodger. It had only been two weeks after my return to London, and not only had I been given ample time to consider the state of relations between myself and Watson – of rather, my preferred state of them – during my absence, but it was also clear as daylight that these considerations were not one-sided. More often than not I perceived his lingering gaze when he must have deemed himself unobserved, a strange fondness in his smile that had not been there or at least not apparent before, fleeting touches that anyone other than me would have disregarded as casual. It was not that my regard for him had changed over the years; I had always treasured him, always cherished his company above all others, and his decision to leave our shared lodgings to bind himself in marriage had been the most disheartening experience in my life. Yet in those days I had invariably stilled my hand and sealed my lips, for to endanger our friendship by making disrespectable and ill-advised advances was quite out of question.

Not now, though. Not after we had endured such a painful separation, after he had lost not only me but also his dear wife, after he must have realized as well as I how precious it is to call another beloved, how easily broken the spell by the merciless hand of death.

You see, my friend: I am capable of romantic wallowing. I simply pertain that it has no place in the report of my work.

And while Watson had yet to give any indication that he had caught up on the changed nature of my intentions towards him, I was under no illusions that the clamoring public, if given a truthful report of our conversation on the morning in question, would have no difficulties whatsoever.

**… upon the occasion of a dinner invitation in Kensington, a sophisticated young man of Spanish heritage by the name of Garcia with whom he subsequently claimed to have struck up a quick friendship that culminated in an invitation at the Spaniard’s home in Esher. The motive for this invitation remained unclear at this point, for Mr. Scott was quite an unremarkable person to begin with and the sudden interest of Mr Garcia immediately struck me as quite suspicious.**

I was rather content with myself that I had left out the exact nature of my suspicions, but my personal critic still appeared to be less than pleased.

_There is no dialogue, Holmes. A short story without dialogue is about as exciting as a crime scene that has been steamrolled by Gregson._

 

The fiasco continued in a similar fashion for the next few pages. Several parts had been crossed out altogether, including our daring retrieval and subsequent destruction of the papers in question, which I had believed to satisfy Watson’s demand of a “colorful tale” and which was, in any case, a central part of the mystery. I had even omitted the incriminating details as well as the names of the parties concerned, but Watson has always been a more cautious fellow than I.

_There are other ways to ensure a reader’s excitement, Holmes. Leave it out._

“This is absurd, Watson,” I voiced my protest. “There will be nothing left of the case if we leave out the papers.”

“Which is why I would not have chosen this particular one for publication,” my friend replied without looking up. “But it’s always possible to embellish it, if the original tale is not entertaining enough. It is called poetic license.”

“Like claiming that you could feed a snake with milk, for instance?” I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm, but I only receive a low chuckle in response and thus resumed my reading. 

 

He had in several instances used as much as the entire back of the sheet to sketch an alternative version of a paragraph, I noted with dismay. Furthermore, his additions were not even slightly adjusted to my purposefully prosaic style of writing but, if anything, even more florid than I had come to expect from him.

“Seriously, Watson, _hot on a scent?”_

My friend propped his feet upon the ottoman without lowering his paper, ostentatiously ignoring my remark.

Several paragraphs later I learned that I _relished in the simple joys to be found in country life_ and _made every attempt to convey to my reluctant companion the inspiring beauty of nature’s gifts._

I shot the man an irritated glare and could not fail to notice that the hand holding the paper had begun to vibrate with suppressed laughter.

“I fail to see what could possibly be so amusing about this matter,” I informed him coldly and gathered the sheets in a stack, prepared to dispose of the entire thing in the fireplace, when a turn of phrase at the bottom of a page caught my eye and let me freeze in shock. 

Very slowly I sat back and looked at it again. I had not misread.

_I had hardly closed the door behind us when my friend backed me up against it, turning the key with one hand and pressing my head back against the hard wood with the other. “Holmes,” he hissed into my ear, and I felt the breath catch in my throat. “I have had quite enough of this. I am not a complete fool, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”_

“Watson,” I informed him, and my voice may possibly have sounded slightly nonplussed. “This is not what happened.”

Now, at last, the infuriating man deigned to lower his newspaper, and the look he gave me very nearly made me forget to breathe. 

“Isn’t it?” he said softly. “Well, my dear fellow, it crossed my mind, especially as you had repeatedly insinuated that you would not object in the slightest. But it would have been impractical at the time. The walls were quite thin, you see. I took the trouble to check.”

I felt the blood rising to my cheeks, which is an irritating sensation because blushing is not something I am in the habit of doing.

“Did you, now?” I returned cautiously. 

_His hands slid over my body, pressing our hips closer together while he busied himself with the fastenings of my trousers…_

Oh, good Lord.

“Can I take this to mean,” I continued slowly, “that you would not be averse to the idea itself, should we find ourselves in more suitable surroundings?”

“Such as Baker Street, you mean?”

“Just to give an example.”

“Possibly.” He lifted an eyebrow and gifted me with a positively dirty smile. “Your bedroom would do nicely, I suppose.”

“I concur.” I could hardly bear to read further, for the highly explicit descriptions of what he would have us do had a distinct effect on my body, something I would normally resent as I do not like to be dictated by my physicality. In this instant, though, I knew that the bodily urges of which he was speaking were accompanied by the deepest affections that could exist between two souls, and that I was just being granted a blessing which I had desperately wished but hardly dared to hope for.

“Watson,” I declared, and my smile must have every bit as salacious as his own. “Upon further reflection, I must say it has become rather late. If you don’t object, I shall retire for tonight.”

“I do not object, my dear Holmes,” he said, and his eyes were gleaming with anticipation. “I do not object at all.”

 

“Still, it is a shame that we had to burn it,” I declared later that evening when Watson and I were lounging in my bed, both in a state of undress that would have made Mrs. Hudson blush and conveniently ignoring the fact that the bed was rather too narrow for more than one occupant. Watson had wrapped his arm around my chest in a frankly possessive manner and placed his head on my shoulder, which was strangely pleasant even though my arm was beginning to feel numb. The whole situation did indeed have an element of the bizarre, although I would not go so far as to say grotesque because, as I have recently discussed with the Doctor, the word “grotesque” suggests a tragic element which was most definitely absent in this particular case.

“It was an engaging piece of literature. Now I will have to start again from the beginning.”

“I would rather you did not,” Watson declared lazily. “Rewarding as the experience may have been, you had best leave the writing to me, Holmes. You have many admirable qualities,” and I could fairly hear the smirk behind his words, “but being an author is most definitely not among them.”

“That depends on the nature of the text that needs to be written,” I argued.

“Literature.” He raised himself on one elbow, thankfully lifting his weight off my biceps, and gave me a look that could only be described as patronizing. “You need to captivate your audience. Did I not demonstrate that in a convincing fashion?”

I could not deny that specific fact. “Yet, it was not a truthful report of what had happened. You twisted the facts to make them suit your purpose.”

“That I did.” He reached out with his free hand to brush a strand of hair out of my face. “Poetic licence, as I said. It has its merits. You know, I will have to use a great deal of poetic licence if I ever want to write about that case.”

“There were elements of interest.”

“Yes, there were. The strange disappearance, the foreign dictator, the voodoo artefacts. I could include a damsel in distress…”

“Watson!”

“How do you like the title Wisteria Lodge?”

“There were no wisterias.”

“I am fond of wisterias.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but when I perceived the twinkle in his eyes I understood that it would be of no use whatsoever. It would be a better use of my breath, I decided, to draw him into a kiss instead.


End file.
